Here I am, living in Seattle, the home of Starbucks, where you can’t sling a dead cat without hitting a coffee shop, and I don’t drink coffee. I have always marched to the beat of a different drummer, but this is ridiculous. It’s like living in Boston and wearing orange on St. Patrick’s Day.
You see, I’m allergic to caffeine. It gives me migraines. And because of that, I’ve never really developed much of a tolerance for it. (I once drank half a can of Mountain Dew and was bouncing off the walls for 48 hours.)
And if you ask, “Why not try decaf?” my response would be, “What’s the point?”
Yes, I can see the appeal. In this raw, grey, wet climate, it’s got to be comforting to have something warm to drink. (My mother used to heat up apple juice and drop in a cinnamon stick for me so I wouldn’t feel so left out.)
I admit I do like to hang out in cozy little coffee shops. It seems like such a grown up thing to do. At my age, it seems to be the only way to date in this town. “Let’s meet for coffee.”
I can’t seem to get a second date to save my life, though. Does the fact that I order something other than coffee have anything to do with it? I’m grasping at straws, here. Or maybe, in this case, those little plastic stirrer thingies. Either way.